


The Great Blue War

by SeratheMG (Serathe)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Young, smurfs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serathe/pseuds/SeratheMG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" asked John with a significant smile and for a second there Mycroft let his guard down, looking a little bit surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Blue War

 

_"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" asked John with a significant smile and for a second there Mycroft let his guard down, looking a little bit surprised._

&&&  
  
When Sherlock was six and Mycroft just entered the unlucky age of thirteen and his weight issues started to become, in his opinion, a problem of national importance, he went on a trip to Germany and brought his little brother back the 1984 sports edition of Kinder Surprise Smurfs, eight precious hand-painted figurines, in a hope that the home-not-quite-grown scientist would act less like Gargamel and more like a quiet collector.   
  
He wasn't really counting on it, though, as the only thing Sherlock collected so far were catastrophes, in all shapes and sizes, from a simple "I tried to mix some plaster in the liquidizer" accident to the memorable "I used mummy's diamond ring to cut a hole in the bedroom window and then carried on an experiment to confirm that diamonds are made of coal and can really be burned with a lighter" disaster. Of course Mycroft was the one to suffer the consequences, as in their home everything good was the idea of the little genius Sherlock and everything bad was his big lazy brother Mycroft's fault.  
  
So when one day he came home from school and found the sad remains of the Chocolate Smurf in the oven, he only uttered a sigh. Then he made sure that the gas was turned off and cleaned all the mess before stepping into the dining room and seeing for the first and last time in his life the Sack Hop Smurf actually hopping across the table on a dark piece of something that looked like a hockey puck with a hole in the middle, but was in fact a magnet. Sherlock had just gotten out from under the table with another magnet in his hand, and Mycroft froze, when his quite good deductive skills linked those two pieces with the newly bought hi-fi speakers in his room.   
  
"You little b-" started Mycroft and immediately thought that Sherlock would most certainly want to know exactly what a bastard is. "Little mad hatter," he finished awkwardly.  
  
"It's not a hat, it's a tricorne", said Sherlock, straightening the thing on his ruffled hair. He learned how to read when he was three and had just finished reading Stevenson's "Treasure Island" and, for some reason, preferred Long John Silver over Jim Hawkins. Mycroft thought that as for this kind of literature, he wished Sherlock to be more like Dr Jekyll than Mr Hyde, or that he would just get kidnapped, so his tired older brother could get at least a few hours of rest before the kidnappers brought the little angel back, paying extra so he would take the child off their hands.  
  
Well, Sherlock was a very special child. One of the doctors tried to diagnose him with the Asperger's syndrome but refused to see him anymore, after the four-year-old Sherlock looked him in the eye, communicated his displeasure by calling him a quack and with excellent accuracy threw a small frog straight into his face.  
  
"Why were you looking at mummy's bottom?", he asked a moment later, before the psychologist managed to even stop trembling in disgust.   
  
Needless to say, there were no more such medical visits at the Holmes estate.  
  
Mycroft thought they will definitely need one after what was later called by Sherlock the "Great Blue War". The house was the battlefield and Mycroft got cast for the years to come in the role of the arch-enemy, nicking the Smurfs one by one, no matter how creatively the little genius hid them, simultaneously putting them in situations that would definitely result in little blue corpses, had the Smurfs been previously alive.   
  
The Jump Rope Smurfette drowned in the inkwell, and Mycroft wouldn't even notice if it wasn't for a curious red string sticking out from the ink. And the forth one, the Ball Hop Smurf, he found in pieces on the patio, thrown down from the roof tile, judging from the red tile that lied broken beside him.  
  
The next one, the Egg Run Smurf, he found ducktaped to a turtle near the pond in the garden. When he tried to catch it, the scared animal escaped into the water, loudly cheered by Sherlock, who as always was right where the action was.  
  
"This would be the fifth one", Mycroft said angrily.  
  
"Sixth one!" argued Sherlock, while his brother rolled up his sleeve and tried to reach the turtle in the pond. Successfully.  
  
"Fifth. There was the one in the oven, the one on the table, the one in the ink, the one on the roof and there's this one."  
  
"One, two, three, five, six!" counted Sherlock and Mycroft thought it's time to find him a math tutor. Whom he would most definitely hate.  
  
"And what about four?"  
  
"I've deleted it, it's a bad number."  
  
"You can't delete it, Sherlock, it's common knowledge."  
  
"I'm not common", answered Sherlock and that was the end of the conversation, as Mycroft just couldn't come up with the right retort.  
  
When he at last found the sixth figurine, the Searching Smurf, hanging on a loop from the pipe in the bathroom, he decided it was time for a more serious talk.  
  
"Why are you killing the Smurfs, Sherlock?" he asked in a calm voice.  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Yes you are. If they were alive, your actions would change that."  
  
"But they're not. They're like that picture of a parrot in the book. You can't kill a picture."  
  
"But if you tear it in half, for example, it would be broken. Breaking is a kind of killing."  
  
The Stilts Smurf got bisected with Mycroft's own pocket knife, stolen from his closed desk drawer. Sherlock proved yet again to be a very stubborn boy. And Mycroft would never admit it, but he felt a little scared. Not by his little brother, but for him. He wasn't in any way faint-hearted, but he could see that it wouldn't be long before Sherlock starts "breaking" actual living things, insects and amphibians at first, just out of curiosity about what makes them tick. And then he will smoothly get to bigger, warmer animals. Progressing as he was, he could someday become bored enough to experiment with killing a human being. If some other careless experiment doesn't kill him first.  
  
If Sherlock was a normal child, Mycroft would just give him a solid thrashing, taking over the sad duty from their parents, so rarely present in the family home. But Sherlock wasn't even a typical Asperger child, hitting him seemed just... unfair. And impulsive, which was never one of Mycroft's traits. He was always the one with a clever plan. To make Sherlock do something he didn't want to and to make others do what he wanted. While Sherlock liked toy soldiers, he preferred chess. Also, Mycroft knew he was the only one able to prevent his brother from getting worse. He simply promised himself to succeed in that task. And he broke many promises in his time, but that one he kept his whole life.  
  
"Mummy will be upset", he stated with confidence in his voice, "when I tell her you broke yet another toy. And a present."  
  
Sherlock might have seemed unable to feel guilt or shame, been called a little sociopath by neighbours, but everyone cares about something. Sherlock cared about his mother's opinion. Mycroft knew that caring can be a useful weakness.  
  
His little brother glowered at him suspiciously, but after a moment raised his arm and opened his fist, letting Mycroft take the last figurine without a fight. Mycroft almost smiled. One small step for a Smurf...  
  
"And then there were none", he whispered to himself, hiding the Referee Papa Smurf in his pocket.  
  
And then he heard a click and a figure of an Action Man parachuted on an embroidered handkerchief straight onto his head.

&&&  
  
 _"Yes, he told me all about it," continued John cheerfully."You know he still holds a grudge, right?"_  
 _"Wouldn't expect anything else."_


End file.
